


Please, Bill (Save Me While You're Dying)

by CamillaEmily



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bev and Stan are my BROTP, Bill gets kidnapped, Canon Timeline, F/M, Fluff, I love Stanley Uris and it shows, It's a classic Ben/Bev sewer kiss switch, M/M, Multi, Richie and Eddie are in love because I can, Stan is the terrified new leader, a bit of comfort, but not canon events, everyone loves bill, to Stenbrough instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 13:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13365252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamillaEmily/pseuds/CamillaEmily
Summary: Stan once thought that the responsibility of learning all his bar mitzvah prayers was the most heinous and heavy expectation of his life until he was given that look as to be the one to lead his friends to save their ex-leader. He now realised how tunnelled his vision of the world was from his naive 12-year-old eyes and wished more than anything, more than Beverly to stop crying, more than the boy he loved to be saved, more than IT to be killed, that he could see that way again.





	Please, Bill (Save Me While You're Dying)

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested on my Tumblr: richie-txier.tumblr.com
> 
> Go look on there for more fics, and maybe request something? :)

**Beverly was running;**  her legs moved as fast as they could as she teared down the sidewalk, the rows of continuously richer looking suburban houses and the quick smudges of black street names against steadily less gratified signs the only subconscious map she paid attention to. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, panting heavily, her eyes burning as the urge to cry rose with the wind that had whipped against them, and she looked around, scarlet curls flying around her head to make a blurred halo of fire as she desperately searched for somewhere she realised she had no clue of its place. Standing up fully to gulp down air she squinted, partly to see through the glinting pale sun and partly to stop the oncoming wave of tears as the shock began to wear off and the panic of the situation and the unknowing of her destination settled in.

The towering structure of the Star Of David emerged from the horizon two blocks down from her and she looked up to the ivory sky to thank whatever deity she could, taking a deep breath and sprinting towards the building. As she neared the Synagogue she took a moment to flatten her hair a little and smooth down her dress, deciding that in case people were in there she should at least try to be respectful, before pushing open the heavy door and slipping inside.Luckily, the rows of dark wooden seats were empty and the large high-ceilinged room loomed over her to make her feel small enough for the fear to set in as she realised how out of place she looked in the old and antique built premises. The only sound was the echoing fluttering of words from a language she couldn’t understand, the words throaty as they curled around the person’s tongue, but Beverly had no time to stand and admire as she jogged towards the figure stood on the stage in the centre.

“Stan!” She exclaimed clambering towards him. Stan’s head shot up from where he was bent over the heavy prayer book, the studying of the ancient text apparently never ceasing to his father even after the passing of his bar mitzvah. He seemed surprised for a moment as the appearance of the dishevelled, panic-struck and, especially, non-Jewish girl who was hardly her friend was stood before him.

“Beverly, what’s-?” He began, closing the heavy book.

“It got Bill.“ 

She panted, tears now filling her eyes as they slid down her cheekbones. Stan watched in shocked fascination as the usually pride-filled and feisty girl broke down in front of him. He skipped around the boxed stage to stand in front of her, her head falling into her hands as she sobbed.

"Calm down. What are you talking about? Who’s ‘It’-?” Stan stood awkwardly, not knowing whether was supposed to comfort her or not, and then not really knowing how to if he did, his mouth rattling off the carefully constructed questions, until the final, to which he was interrupted again, but not by Beverly’s heaving and terrified cries, but by his own horrified flash of memories and realisations. He froze.

“It, Stan. It.” Beverly said wetly, attempting to sound soft as she peeked up to see Stan’s white face. She reached forward to place a hand on his shoulder and he jerked, her hand then falling to his elbow as his glazed hazel eyes met her damp pale ones.

“What? How?” He rasped, his voice breaking and Beverly could feel him trembling. She sniffed deeply, rolling back her shoulders to take a stronger posture as she figured that Stan needed comforting more than her right now.

“I-I’m not sure. We were supposed to meet up this afternoon, but when he didn’t show up I went to his house and it was empty. His parent’s car was gone and the only thing left was a-a message in bluh-blood in-” She stopped to inhale shakily, her tears glinting in the milky light that poured from the stain-glass windows, the kaleidoscope of colour reflected across her face only making her seem surreal like an abstract painting. The thought sends a pure shiver of a fear trickling down Stan’s spine.

“In where?” He breathed, though he feared he already knew the answer.

“In-I-In Georgie’s room,” She finished, her words becoming jumbled as they tumbled from quivering lips. Stan’s hand gravitated towards her waist, hesitating a moment before landing to just brush against her side, the wrinkles and dust that layered and creased her dress making his throat feel tight, but he struggled through it, determined to at least comfort her a little, “T-There was a message,” She continued  her voice seeming stronger now that he had touched her and he placed his hand more firmly on her back, edging her to continue, “It said: Y-you d-duh-die, if you try.”

“Oh shit,” Stan squeaked, tilting his head up to blink away oncoming tears, and then back to face Beverly who was staring up at him with the look he recognised as the one Eddie would gaze at Bill, that Richie would glance across at Bill, that he would squint at Bill. The look directed towards a leader. And Stan had never felt more scared.

Beverly sobbed thickly and suddenly lurched forward to use the hand she still had placed on his arm to tug him closer and fling her other arm around his neck to rest her head on his shoulder. He froze for a moment as she cried into his meticulously ironed shirt and he panicked as he felt a wet patch form under her head, but then she trembled and choked through her tears and Stan’s heart jerked. Carefully and feeling a tad embarrassed, though if there was no one there to watch him, he slid his hand from her side to around her body, pulling her into a warm hug. And even if he was still stood a bit too straight, and his hold was a bit too loose, as Beverly felt the dripping of his own tears in her hair she only squeezed him tighter, framing the silent question with terror of _what are they going to do now?_

* * *

 **Bill was floating;** the tiny conscious part of his brain was screaming at the moment. The ability to move his limbs, to just wiggle his fingers, to just blink had waves of panic rushing through his mind to make him feel nauseous. He found he was able to control his breathing at least and took deep breaths, deciding that he needed to be calm if he was going to be able to figure out what was happening.

He had just awoken, the memories of how he had got there trickling back in terror-filled whispers of a horrifically bubbly voice, musky and choking smells of rotting flesh and sewage, razor-sharp pricks of brick and fingernails digging into his arms and ankles, and the surreal bright flashings of cracking porcelain skin and, the last lingering memory, of a cluster of golden orbs of light that swam around the tooth-studded plain of a crimson-painted mouth. All he could see was the high and rusted metal ceiling, his head lolled back against the back of his shoulders and the draft of wind that brushed against his cheek meant only one thing: he actually was floating.

He estimated that he was maybe 15 feet up, and the thought of being stranded here in mid-air until whenever It decided to crawl back and devour him had, instead of a paralysing fear seize his muscles, a powerful survival instinct flood his mind. An anger at the paranormal beast, a frustration that he had been taken so easily.

He should have figured that the situation was too suspicious right from when his parents had actually told him they loved him before leaving. A phrase of words unheard of in the Denbrough house since the previous autumn. The thought that his parents had only uttered those words after being possessed by whatever evil spirit the clown held had a flood of depression swirl around him - a position of vulnerability that was no doubt the intention IT was striving to manipulate. The thing must have thought it too easy as it watched him disappear into his brother’s room to sit mournfully on his small baby blue bed and gaze sadly and emotionally-openly at the matching pale blue wallpaper decorated in cartoon boats. The last thing he remembered from the shadow-filled room that once held his brother, was the temperature drop, peculiarly for mid-afternoon in August, and then his eyes closed to let a single tear fall, before opening them to have a sudden grinning face inches from his own. Then it went black.

Back in the moment, Bill felt hopeless, the sparking fire of his anger useless in the position of a numb body, a mute voice box and a dark, dank room. He could only stare constantly upwards, the sliver of bleached light just out the corner of his eye the only source of his hope towards Beverly realising he was missing and coming to save him. He was sure she would try at least, maybe Richie and Eddie too. Ben would follow her anywhere, he somewhat jealously believed, and Mike might be reachable and resigned to help if she begged enough.

_What about Stan?_

Bill hoped he came the least.

The strongest feeling he had was that the union of the Losers Club was the only way to stop It; if the seven of them united under the heart-thumping, voice-breaking, body-trembling desire to murder the thing, he was sure, more than anything, that they could do it. But Stan was afraid, arguably the most out of all of them, but Bill felt like that was because he was smarter than the rest of them. He knew the consequences, his brain far maturer than theirs to see not just the scratches and cuts they would whimper and cry over in the moment, but the psychological impact; the effect that he mostly forgot when his blood started pumping and his eyes steeled to take on the present as the leader of their friends. But Stan stood back, and thought, and weighed, and decided, usually with a gentle hand on his tensed shoulder, that it was not worth it.

Bill hoped Stan came the least, because, if he did, it meant that this was  _bad_.

* * *

 **Stan was staring;**  his wide eyes golden in the peeking of sunlight that had appeared during the hour it had taken to gather everyone. Beverly had been the one to bike to Mike’s farm, leaving Stan with the responsibility to phone the others, she having left him Ben’s number before she left. The calls had been difficult.

Ben was quiet, his voice hushed and timid over the phone as he shakily confirmed the address of the house. 29 Neibolt Street was where he was stood now, an array of bandages under his shirt hiding his physical reminders of the place, hand placed comfortingly on Beverly’s shoulder as he squinted up with kind blue eyes at Stan to make him divert his eyes.

Eddie had cried, his voice shaking as he asked him if he was sure, his smalls sniffs, as what  Mrs Kaspbrak would describe as, delicate, the woman in question being heard screeching just before Eddie had put down the phone. But he was here, one arm wrapped in his cast now blaring a markered word they would discuss later and the other entwined with Richie’s, his fanny pack laying somewhere in the dead meadow of the tall yellow grass around the house, and his firm dark eyes stared up at him to make Stan’s stomach squirm.

Richie had been close, his breathing a little shaky and Stan could hear him swallow through the receiver, his voice thick as he assured him he would be there, and his laugh was chest-tighteningly fake as Stan tried to remark through his own heavy tongue that he wouldn’t be allowed if he wore his ‘hideous pink shirt’. Here he stood now, his over-shirt white, either by Stan’s request or maybe Richie’s need to feel ordinary by the submission to the growing heat of the day. His hair was messy, his hand clutching Eddie’s, and his huge dark eyes gazed up at his best friend with enough hope to have Stan physically squirm.

Mike and Beverly had arrived just as the four of them had stepped through the spindly and broken gates, both descending from their bikes and hurried over to the group gathered in front of the house. They watched as Stan had ascended the steps and that was when he had turned to them to see them all staring up at him, that  _look_ in all their eyes. Stan turned back around, fighting the rise of sobs in his chest as he peeked into the door and saw nothing but darkness, even though the day must have been bright enough to have some streams through the glassless and boarded up windows.

“Stan,” Mike’s voice cut through the moist air but Stan raised his hand.

He had to do this. He could do this.

So he turned back around and copied the motions he had mesmerised and memorised from Bill. He rolled back and tensed his shoulders, he stuck his chin up, he steeled his eyes, he raised his chest and he narrowed his gaze down at them all, the tears that glazed his eyes only making him feel stronger. If he was going to be afraid, he was going to afraid saving his best friend. Saving the first boy he ever loved. Saving his Bill. He coughed lightly and tried to project his voice more than the rawness of his throat would allow.

“If Bill were here he’d probably say something profound. Something that would inspire all of us and make us feel brave enough to go in there and fight. But I’m not Bill, and I’m really  _scared_ ,” His voice broke and he cleared his throat. The sun glinted through his blonde curls and across his sharp features, the sight of him causing a stir in the five of them,

“But if I learnt anything from Bill it’s that you should always tell the truth, even if you stutter,” Stan took deep breaths to calm the fluttering in his throat, the gaze they all shined up at him motivating him more than he figured he was supposed to rouse them, “And the truth is that if we stick together we can do this. That we can save Bill.”

They all nodded and watched, and then followed, wordlessly, as Stan pushed open the broken door and stepped inside the house, his tears unnoticed.

* * *

 **Stan was crying;** his tears very much noticeable as they trickled freely down his face, mixing with whatever grey water and grime that had been splashed or smeared across it from his journey through the sewers to get to this moment. Henry had died, or at least they though he did, a long drop down a well was a definite way to do so, at least; Eddie had been separated, only to be found after Richie’s incessant panicked clambering and yelling had led them to him being cornered in a larger room in the sewers with his leper kissing him sloppily and sucking across his face to leave puddles of glistening black saliva; they had now finally located the larger cathedral like room, a mountain of trinkets as its centrepiece and the array of distant floating bodies circling around it made it seem almost peaceful, like an unknown planet in far reaches of the solar system.

And then he had spotted Bill. With his mouth hung open, he had searched around the room, and then followed the gaze of his friends at the diversity of phantoms above them, his glare wavering until it hit the bottom of untied trainers and the vibrant stain of vermilion that was Bill’s plaid shirt.

“BILL!” He screamed and ran towards him, stumbling across the straggle of toys and clothing that littered the ground until he was underneath the floating ex-leader, stretching on his tiptoes so his fingertips just brushed against the sole of his feet, “BILL! ARE YOU OKAY?”

Slowly Bill had begun his descent, his body drifting steadily downwards until a shoelace hit the top of Stan’s head, sliding down his nose being swiftly replaced with a soft but solid with dried dirt and possibly blood shirt before he was face to face with the boy he loved. The sob wriggled out his lips before he could stop it as he gazed into the cloudy and dull blue eyes that stared unseeingly back at him.

“Bill,” He whimpered. He reached out the clutch a handful of Bill’s sleeve and shook him slightly, the only sign of movement coming from the swaying jerk of his auburn fringe as it expanded to completely cover his forehead. Stan’s other hand cupped his jaw, the skin cold and numb under his touch and he dug his thumb into his cheek, anything to get him to flinch or show any sign of life.

He could hear the others gather around the two of them, Eddie whimpering Bills name and reaching out himself to grab the cuff of Bill’s sleeve having managed to wrestle himself from Richie’s tight and protective hold. Still, his pale arms were wrapped snugly around the smaller boy, covered in drying oil-like spit that he had rubbed of Eddie’s face as to clean him as best as he could. Richie himself was sniffing as he stared at the neutral face of his best friend, one of his hands entwining with Beverly’s behind him as she sobbed into her hand. Ben and Mike stood on either side of Stan, each laying a hand on his shoulder but Stan shrugged them off angrily.

“NO! WHY WON’T HE WAKE UP?! BILL!” He cried helplessly, stepping closer to him, shadowed hazel eyes wide with fear as he couldn’t rip his gaze from his slack face. He whimpered, voice broken and every muscle in his body crying out to slump into Bill’s arms, to let the heaviness of responsibility pass to the only boy he knew was strong enough to hold it, “Please, Bill, please.”

He desperately searched his mind for anything that could help, but all his thoughts were just  _Bill_. Him and Bill laughing at the quarry, his kind blue eyes staring admiringly at him as he ranted about a rare bird he had spotted, his dimpled crooked smile he sent whenever their gazes met even if for an unimportant second because he was always important to Bill, the curl of his mouth and deepening of his brow when he was facing a problem, the crinkling of his eyes and pink plumpness of his cheeks as he stared wistfully at the Disney movie ( _their_ Disney movie) playing on the screen in front them, both huddled in blankets even if it was mid-August, the fleeting brush of his hand against his under the covers as his other held his chin  smiled softly at the Prince kissing Sleeping Beauty awake-

Stan’s eyes widened and his breath hitched. That was it.

He wasted no time, his actions going unrecorded by his usually obsessive brain but all he could focus on was the slackness of Bill’s lips as he framed his pallid face with his hands, licked his lips, and leaned in. Tilting his head a little to the side he pushed their lips together, only for a second or two, but in the time he had memorised the shape of his mouth, the softness of his cold lips and the faded freckles he could see out his narrowed eyes across Bill’s cheeks. Ones he’d never noticed before.

He pulled back, Richie’s flabbergasted exclaim and Ben’s gasp background music as he watched in desperation for something,  _anything_.

Bill gasped. His eyes cleared, the sharp blue flooding back, the colour in his lips darkening, and his whole body shook as he gulped down deep breaths. Stan’s mouth lifted, a relieved smile twitching at his cheeks, a new wave of tears filling his eyes as his gaze stayed stuck on Bill blinking rapidly, his shoulders slumping to a sluggish relaxed position and he bent over a little to accommodate the sudden pressure change of being on the ground and the surge of air into his lungs.

“Jesus fuck!” Richie exclaimed, laughing in relief as he gathered Bill in his arms, meaning that Eddie and Beverly were squished and dragged towards the embrace as well. Mike and Ben hooked around Stan’s back as they too joined the hug, the seven of them pressed together to welcome back their fearless leader, and as they all parted, that  _look_ had turned away from Stan to stare at Bill. Bill took a moment took look at all of them in turn, gratitude and love pouring to each of them before he turned to Stan in front of him.

“You came,” Bill said, his voice still strong and clear and it made Stan feel suddenly safe. To an outsider, it seemed as if Bill was speaking to all of them, but as he locked eyes with Stan he got the message.

“Of course I did.” Stan breathed, but then his eyes twitched upward to his messy fringe and he chuckled weakly, the reaction more out of delirious shocked relief than because of anything funny. He clicked his tongue in faux annoyance and reached up to brush it back into place over one of his bright eyes. Bill caught his wrist, his shorter stature meaning he was looking slightly upwards towards him. His cobalt eyes flickered down to his mouth for a moment and Stan felt a surge of love and adoration so rapid he felt dizzy, the cold and horrible room falling away, if just for a second, as Bill rubbed his thumb against the inside of his wrist, his own fingers lingering against Bill’s cheekbones.

“Stan-” Bill began, his voice soft and just for the two of them, but they were interrupted swiftly by a scared squeaky voice that triggered the beginning of the end for the two of them, for the Losers Club, for Pennywise; the voice that proved his hypothesis of the only reason why Stan would have ever dared to step over the Neibolt thresh-hold, 

“Billy?”

This was  _bad._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like this, let me know what you think!! <3


End file.
